


Just a Different Kind of Mirror

by NateFraust



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Joker (2019)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, Gen, Organized Crime, Private Investigators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-22 17:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NateFraust/pseuds/NateFraust
Summary: Gotham has lost itself. Amidst the chaos and anarchy, a fool king finds wisdom.
Relationships: Sophie Dumond/Arthur Fleck
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	1. It's Okay if You Get Anxious...

**Author's Note:**

> Story title and all chapter titles come from "Robin Williams", by Noah Gundersen.

The candles don’t do much to drown out the stench of rotten eggs and fetid meat. She doesn’t dare pop open the window; things still haven’t died down since-

“Momma?”

She tears her eyes away from the warped sight of her own face in the black of the TV screen, gazes wearily at the little gnat- no, no, that’s her daughter- sitting cross-legged in the space between the couch and the shitty, creaky bundle of sticks and planks that’s meant to pass for a coffee table. “Yes, sweety?”

Gigi’s face mask scrunches, the same way it has time and again over these past few weeks, and she sighs to herself at the inevitable query. “Can we go?”

She looks at their poor excuse for a Thanksgiving feast, at the limp green beans, the desiccatingly-salty pumpkin pie, the dry piece of turkey somewhere between a slice and a slab, then, heaving a silent sigh, forces herself to her feet and pads to the patchwork pane of glass that her daughter is peeking out of. Drawing back a curtain, she shudders at the smattering of cops, both in-uniform and out, and at the mess of cars packed along both ends of Slant Avenue, like discolored sardines. The snow has stopped.

“Momma?”

She chews at a nail. “Sure.”

Silence.

She clears her throat. “Sure thing, sweety. Go get your coat, okay? The one with the violet plastic thingy.”

“Alright, momma.” She hears socked feet pad across the grimy carpet, a phthsh-phthsh, phthsh-phthsh, then, “Love you.”

“Love you more,” she responds in the sweetest voice she can manage. At the sound of a door latching closed, she drudges into her own room, hunches over, and finangles the vent beside her armoire. Flailing fingers brush against the anticipated wad of paper, and she wrestles it out of the tight spot she’d stuffed it in, hissing as something scrapes against the back of her hand and pain shoots up her arm. Moving with speed now, she flings the door to the armoire open and rummages through her meager collection of coats.

“I’m ready, Momma.”

“That’s great, Gigi. Wait for Mommy by the door, alright? Just need to get this blasted coat on.” Her hand grasps at anything remotely thick-feeling and yanks. Not really noticing the black leather or the small rips and tears, she shrugs the thing on and stuffs her hand, and the money therein, into a pocket. She dashes over to the door, then she’s through it, grasping Gianna’s proffered hand and twisting the lock open. A quick glance at the clock overhead leaves her cursing her bad luck. “Stay close to me, sweety. We gotta hurry, alright?”

“Okay.”

As soon as she’s sure the door has properly locked behind them, she turns and starts sprinting down the hall, only for her head and nose - and her daughter, if the pull and cough is any indication - to catch up with her feet. She screeches to a halt as that malefic odor causes her to bend over, throat burning as bile wells up. Shooting a quick glance at the door, tears well in her eyes at the sight of 411A, and she flees, a pitiful, horrific sight in her mind’s eye.


	2. ... Just Please Don't Call the Cops

“God bless you.”

She dips her head, less an acknowledgement than an attempt to keep eyes off her own. Still, she mutters, “Same to you”. It’s only courteous.

“God bless you!”

She nearly shoots Gigi a glare, a silent demand for quiet, but at the sight of her, smiling at these old and grizzled folk like they’re her teachers - like they’re Sophie herself - she clamps her mouth shut, offers up a shaky smile under the guise of kindness, and whispers, “Thank you,” to the next volunteer in the line.

The food is  _ good _ \- rich and sweet and so carefully crafted and spread out that she nearly weeps from the memories it dredges up - and the duo take their time to savor it; only after a kindly crone asks if they need a place to sleep the night - a bristling question that furrows her weary brow - does she realize that they’re the last people left in the center, besides the workers and volunteers.

“Gigi. Time to go, sweety.” She shakes the elementary schooler, rousing her as the girl murmurs, “Where’s Mr. Chuckles?”

A cold feeling drips down her spine; she can feel eyes on her.

“We gotta go.” She pulls herself and Gianna to their feet, scooping her up as she rises, and dashes for the door, not bothering to slow for anything. Bursting out into the street, she skids on the ice for a moment, managing through sheer luck to not tumble over the curb and into whatever oncoming traffic there may be, nor to let go of Gigi, whose grip round her neck has gotten so tight as to be a noose. Snow and ice crunches beneath the worn pair of tar-stained boots she’d shoved on, but she doesn’t slip up as she crosses Blake Bridge into the Narrows. Not so far away, a bell tolls 10.

* * *

She acknowledges the plainclothes out of the corner of her eye; their gaze speaks to the fear, the tensing of muscle against guns in waistbands, to the imminent wave of masks and blood-streaked lunatics that have been plaguing Governor Bicchieri’s “dark sapphire of a metropolis” for nigh on a month. She wants to scoff at the thought, but she’s too busy running to safety to notice much; the TVs are all white noise and red flashes.

Then- pain. Cold. Something damp at her back. Someone’s screaming.

“ _ Mommmaaaa! _ ”

She forces her eyes open at the feel of hands on her, at the buttons of her blouse, on the hem of her jeans; the sight of masks and grinning, ethereal warpaint against the sputtering orange of an old streetlamp jolts her into action. She tries to kick at the fuckers, thrashes her head to get their hands in her teeth, but one good punch to the face, and she’s seeing stars and tasting the tang of iron.

“We slicin’ dicin’, boys?”

“Chicken wings, turkey legs, Bones!”

“Gotta sourpuss here, Sliver! Big bitch!”

She tries to scream,but there’s too many hands, tearing at her skin and the plain cotton hiding her, covering her mouth, holding her down.

“ _ Mooommmaaaaaa! _ ”

“Someone shut the little fucker up! She’s gonna get the darkies on us!”

“ _ MOOMMA- _ ” A sound like wood hitting solid glass.

She tries to scream, but she’s so-  _ tired _ .

_ POP _ .

There’s something warm on her face.

“What the-”

_ PO-schlch _ .

She sucks in a lungful of air, tastes something soft in the back of her throat.

“No. I- I’m saaaggghh.”

The thud of a body wrenches her eyes open for a second time. Scrabbling to her feet, she coughs in horror at the mess of blood and brains scattered around her, and nearly vomits as something grey falls out of her mouth to land in a spreading, dark pool.

The ringing goes away slowly, enough to where she has to turn at the sound of meat squelching under someone’s fists. Gigi’s off to one side, staring wide-eyed at the same thing she is, hands clutching the ruined jacket close to her slight frame.

Slowly, she approaches, a hand out, keeping an eye on the being pounding away at what used to be a man’s face, its’ knife discarded and forgotten. As crimson and bone-white powder fly into the cold autumn air, Gigi steps gingerly, quickly, around their seeming savior and runs into her mother’s open arms. Clutching at her legs, the third-grader glances up at her, pleading tears welling in her eyes. Hoisting her up, she wraps Gianna’s hands and feet around her midsection, and runs for the beckoning street.

The apartment lobby is, beyond all reason, cold as death. Shivering, she pounds into the elevator, smashing the  _ 4  _ until the doors creak shut, and she sags. Gigi slips out of her grasp, trembling fingers entwined with her own. The ride up is an eternity in itself.

The stench, if it’s even possible, has gotten worse. She squelches through that ugly, barethread carpet soaked through with rot-juice, fingers clasped around Gianna’s like a cold steel vice, and, mind whirring, manages to stuff the key into the lock and turn the duo of bolt and knob in one smooth motion.

Gigi slams the door to her room, but all she can think of is those silvered teal eyes, staring back at her over a bumblebee-striped mouth-mask, framed in traces of royal blue. The thud of something draws her eye, and she stares at the greying, frayed black cardboard of something as it peeks over the edge of the coffee table. 

Leaning over the stained wood, she grabs at the bundle of scraps akin to a journal; hooking it with her pinkie, she pulls it up, and her heart stops as a blackened, stained slip of paper falls from under the scratched  _ Dumbo _ sticker. It’s beat stutters as she reads the words:

_ To: Sophie _

_ From: A. _


	3. There's a Couple Things I'm Sure of...

The air bites dryly at her cheeks, and she wraps the thin shawl and scarf tighter around her neck and head to ward off the chill. Nevertheless, her fingers shiver as she feeds another quarter into the slot. The dial tone splinters under the force of her fingers -  _ 9\. 1. 1.  _ She fidgets as the booth hums with ringing.

By chance, she glances out the windowless side of the booth, watching as shapeless forms pass in and out of the smoggy ochre of the dawn. A “ _ W _ ” pin here, a half-furled newspaper there. Some naive fragment deep within her wonders at the grief that hangs as sodden as the rain dripping upon the city; the reasonable side of her quashes the upstart in a flash.  _ This is Gotham _ , her soul seems to state stonily.  _ This is- _

_ “GCPD. Moore speaking.” _ The voice is bored, young.

“Yes, hello. This is Sophie D-d-dumond. I have… um…”

_ “Yes?” _ His tone is patronizing.  _ “You have… something to report…” _

“Yes, yes.” She tries to keep her voice from shaking. “Someone b-broke into my apartment last ni-”

_ “Miss Dumond, there have been a large number of break-ins around the city since- the incident.” _ At her sharp intake of breath, he clarifies,  _ “Now, that’s not to imply that we will do nothing about it, but…” _ He trails off.

She chuffs in expectant disbelief. “Not enough time for a little B&E, a little body bloat, but strip searches, a bit of Irish coffee? Go right ahead, boys.”

_ “Miss-” _

The booth reverberates with the  _ klcckkk _ .

* * *

_ Pthmm. Pthmm. Pthmm. _

She curses as pain flares up her arm at the contact between bare skin and scalding milk-water. Shoving the sloshing attempt at chai onto the single non-fucked-up heating element on the stovetop, she grabs at whatever’s on hand and, with as much grace as she can manage - not much, if the creaking is an accurate judge - creeps toward the door.

The hair through the peephole is dark. Her heart pounds double-time,  _ dumph-dumph _ ,  _ dumph-dumph _ .

The sun breaks through the clouds and grimy window, and she releases a breath as the last red beams of light illuminate a strawberry-blonde nursing a cig.

“Yes?” Her voice is timid, but growing stronger.

The tip of the cig disintegrates further as the man takes a drag, then, “Heard about your little…  _ incident _ through the mangroves. No, scratch that; makes you sound like a dumbass. Focus. Need time to figure Keene’s moves. Potential for working with the Reds to get Redford nommed as GOP candidate instead of Reagan?”

Heaving a sigh, she yanks the door open and pulls the muttering man inside. Motioning at the couch, she glances at the pot, then, shrugging, throws out “Water or juice?”as she yanks open the fridge.

His voice is soft. “Water.”

The bottles are swollen with ice; she nearly shudders as she grabs them, but she forces it down and turns to her- guest.

_ Where in the hell- _

Her gaze lands on the crack of light sprayed across the carpet, travels up, up. The light spills out further, putting the intruder in soft silhouette.

“Get out.” Her stomach churns at the wads in his hands. The plastic creaks in her grip.

“Chatter up in the Mile says someone skimmed a bit off Apex Chem’s dividends; wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” His voice is flat, calm to the point of unnerving.

If she can get the angle just right-

“No one questioned why three Jesters ended up dead a block from an apartment building with another weeks-old corpse? No intrigue as to who it was that left said body in the apartment?” A mirthless chuckle. “Of course not.”

Her mouth is dry. “Why-”

“-am I here.” He turns his head ever so slightly, enough so that she can see the twist of a lip turn up for a moment, breathes out a sigh. His eyes are on her, but… not, as if they’re seeing through the flesh and into her very core.

“That, Miss Dumond, is the question. I believe you have the answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was trying to find a good fancast for Vic Sage, and I found this guy: https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/6804478/richard-derr/photo#view-photo=17546889. Feel free to envision him as Sage as you read.
> 
> Wasn't expecting to pump out 2-3 chapters in a week or two; will try and keep it up, though. Next part should be something... different.
> 
> -Nate


End file.
